


Make Believe It

by LadyAramisGrey



Category: A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Also Cole is a bitch, But Sara is a superhero, Family, Gen, Help, Tiny Baby Tom is Adorable, so adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 04:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAramisGrey/pseuds/LadyAramisGrey
Summary: A very strange visitor to Wool's Orphanage throws Tom's life into utter turmoil, changing the course of his destiny.A bitter and lonely boy grew up to be a hard and dangerous man, but what would happen if he had a little love in his life? Stories, and magic, they all have a special power over the soul. Perhaps having magic in his heart, and the eyes to Suppose about the world, will give Tom a brighter future.





	Make Believe It

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a cute little story I thought up. I have plans to eventually expand it and add an actual plot and story, but for now it's just a oneshot.  
Enjoy!

Young feet thundered down the rickety staircase, the childish bodies attached to them hurrying to form a more-or-less respectable line around the edges of the large room. The room was wallpapered and well-furnished in direct contrast to the rest of the building, which was in varying stages of shabby and downright decrepit. The children stood in line, almost afraid to touch the walls. They weren’t allowed into this room unless the special bell had been rung. While the lunch bell was a cause of much gaiety and hurry, this bell in particular was the cause of much anxiety and hope.

For the bell which summoned the children to this fine, forbidden room was the Visitor Bell. It signalled a person, or more often a married couple, who was in search of an orphan child to adopt. And so the children hurried in, lining up as neatly as they could—yet even so they jostled and elbowed each other, as every child wished to be the one best presented, most easily seen. The older children were shuffled, unfavoured and sullen, to the second row of the line, while the young ones stood in front of them with hopeful, beaming faces. The few orphanage workers held the babies available up for inspection, keeping them quiet and docile while they were inspected. Amongst it all, the matron of the orphanage stayed close to those searching to adopt, keeping up a running commentary of unwanted opinion on each child presented or inspected.

This was a well-worn ritual, and the children were all achingly familiar with it. Even more, they were even more familiar with the crushing disappointment of not being chosen, of having to watch the searcher either leave alone or with some brightly chattering little one who had won the greatest lottery an orphan can apply for. Of course, there was no guarantee they’d be gone forever. The most sullen-faced of the orphans in line had been sent out and returned many times, for a variety of reasons.

Yes, this was all an established script, a dance these children, devoid of hope yet unable to quash their wishes entirely, continued to repeat over and over at the whims of outsiders. And yet today, something was different.

None of the people who had gone through this song and dance before could quite put their finger on it, but something was different. More specifically, something was different about _her_.

The woman searching today was of a like to many who’d come in the past. Her fine furs and silk lace gloves spoke of great wealth, her warm and kind smile spoke of compassion and a desire for companionship. She was a bit older than most who came. Rather than a young woman accompanied by a husband this lady was old, very old. Her hair was so white it glistened, and strands as silvery as tinsel glinted in the gas lighting. The lady had fine features; conventionally beautiful she was not, but her hair was marvellously thick despite being braided in a crown around her head, and her face was intense but still attractive despite her extended age. Her most notable feature were the unusually coloured green-grey eyes that were framed by thick, gorgeous lashes so black there was no way her hair could have once been any other colour.

The stately old lady was accompanied by another woman who seemed to be about the same age or a few years older. This other woman was dressed more simply than her companion, but still wore extravagant finery. The second woman walked slightly behind the lady, holding her coat and acting in a subservient manner despite the other woman clearly looking at her now and then for her opinion, which she always promptly gave.

It was not the lady’s appearance that was causing this disturbance in the air. No, despite being rather older than most people looking to adopt, she was in many ways typical. It was almost always just the wealthy who could afford to take in an extra child, and most people who went looking for orphans to raise were kind, though there were, of course, always exceptions. No, it was something else.

Perhaps it was how she spoke with such clear authority and yet such gentleness that no child was afraid or hesitant to answer her queries. Perhaps it was how she queried the children at all. Many of those looking to adopt took to the event as though shopping for a horse—inspecting health, general demeanour, and physical attractiveness above all else. Perhaps it was how she passed over the infants for the older children; the despised and less fortunate in the orphanage were regarded with the most interest.

Why, she gave Sally Whittle, one of the oldest girls still at the orphanage, a full three minutes of attention before shaking her head slightly and moving on. And yet, the second woman, who followed at the first’s elbow, still gave Sally a small card with information that would in later days help her to be employed in a secretarial pool in a business which had an office not far from the orphanage. They did this with every child over the age of twelve—each child received either a card with information providing possible employment, or a sealed letter they were told to take to one of the local universities. And then, when the old lady returned her attention to the younger ones (having exhausted the line of older children), the first child she approached was little Tom Riddle.

Tom was considered the oddity of the orphanage. He was a lovely child to look at, practically aristocratic in his high-brow features and startling intellect. But everyone knew that when he was upset odd things happened. The older children still relayed stories of how, one Christmas when Tom was quite small, two orphans had stolen the gift he had received from the charity bin. He’d not cried, reputedly, but the windows in the room had shattered, narrowly avoiding skewering all three children. When he was bullied, his bullies tended to find themselves injured or stuck in embarrassing situations. When the adults grew cross with him, they found themselves losing their voices or forgetting why they’d wanted to scold him. There was something spooky about young Tom, for all that he was only seven years old. The one who believed this most strongly was the matron, Mrs. Cole.

While some of the younger ladies who worked at the orphanage were charmed by his sweet face or felt sympathy over his ostracization from the other children, Mrs. Cole remained adamant that Tom Riddle was a devil in child’s clothing. She revelled in telling loud stories of how he’d came to the orphanage, of his temper, of the darker deeds nobody could explain which occurred around him. It was her habit when visitors came to inspect children to loudly announce how very _strange_ Tom was whenever somebody seemed to be considering him for adoption. She would hurriedly usher the person or the couple away to a less _dangerous_ option, and she would glare back behind her until the older children had pulled Tom to the very back of the rows where he could not be seen.

When this old visitor called Tom forwards, asking for his name, Mrs. Cole stepped in as per usual.

“Oh, that’s just Tom Riddle, but you wouldn’t like to consider him, ma’am. He’s a _strange_ boy, if you know what I mean.”

This line, which the older children could practically repeat word for word, was accompanied by sniggers from the younger ones closer in age to Tom. Mrs. Cole stepped to the side, arms out as she prepared to escort the lady away from the orphanage oddity and to a safer option. But that was where the script went truly wrong.

The old woman’s chin raised up, and her eyebrows drew together. Instead of following Mrs. Cole to the next child in line, the lady said sharply, “I believe I was asking this lad for his name, not you, madame. Unless he cannot speak?”

The room froze. The children were in disbelief, unable to comprehend that _anyone_ would want to go near freaky sneaky Tom. The other women blinked in surprise, uncertain of this deviation from the norm. But it was with Mrs. Cole herself that the strain of it all was most evident. Her face flushed, bloodshot eyes widening. A truly ugly expression stole across her face before she forced it away, replaced with a fishy smile that only seemed to put the old visitor’s back up even more.

“Oh, but ma’am, I daresay I know these children well,” Mrs. Cole simpered. “I’ve raised near all of them, y’see. Tom’s been adopted out before, you know, and I’ve simply had so many complaints I feel it best to discourage any false hope on either side.”

While it was true that Tom had been adopted out before, none but the oldest of the children and helpers present could remember it. All his adoptions had occurred before he left the nursery. While he often _had_ been brought back for “strange things” happening around him, Tom had in fact not been adopted out since his third birthday, at which time Mrs. Cole’s sensibilities had been most upset by finding the toddler hissing happily in the crib to a trio of grass snakes and her relentless campaign against him had truly taken off.

As if the lady could sense the lies, she hmphed and pointedly turned away from the matron, her attention placed back on the thoroughly discombobulated young Tom.

“So your name is Tom Riddle, is it?” she asked leadingly. “Is there perhaps a middle name to go with it?”

The seven-year-old nodded, his bewilderment clear. “Yes’m,” he mumbled. “M’name’s Tom Marvolo Riddle, mum.”

The old lady clapped her hands together, seemingly delighted. “Tom Marvolo! Why, that’s a lovely name! It sounds like a story book, doesn’t it?”

Young Tom blinked up at her in surprise. He’d always been told that Tom was a common name and Marvolo was the name of a circus-freak, so he didn’t quite know what to do with someone who seemed to like his name. “I wouldn’ know, mum,” he said. “We don’ ‘ave many books ‘ere. I like books, but the play room only ‘as dictionaries an’ things like Aesop’s Fables an’ th’ catechisms.” He brightened faintly. “Nurse Martha did give me ‘er copy o’ _Through the Looking Glass_ to read. It were a good ‘un.”

Her smile grew fonder. “Yes, it is a wonderful book, isn’t it? Mister Carroll’s works are delightfully whimsical. You feel as though the entire story is a giant game of pretend.”

Tom nodded hesitantly. Few people at the orphanage were willing to indulge his love of books, so he was shy with his opinions.

The woman stared at him intently with those large greenish eyes for a long moment. Then, abruptly, she asked, “How old are you, Tom?”

“Seven, mum,” he replied.

Her head tilted to one side, birdlike and thoughtful. “And you’ve lived here your whole life?”

Tom nodded in answer. “Yes’m.”

The lady was thinking again. “Tell me, do you like dogs?”

“Uh…” he blinked, uncertain. “I dunno, mum. Don’t see many dogs round ‘ere.”

She smiled warmly. “No, I don’t suppose you would. What’s your favourite animal, then?”

“Snake,” he said defiantly, determinedly avoiding looking at any of the people in the orphanage who knew _why_ he liked snakes so much. But the old lady seemed charmed by this answer, for some inexplicable reason.

“Well, that is unique, isn’t it?” she said. “I myself have a rat snake that lives in my back garden. She has a hole near the back door, and she keeps the rats and other things from eating my flowers or invading my house.” Her smile turned distant. “Sometimes when I sit out in my garden and read she will sit in the sun with me, and we just exist together. Becky always brings us both a snack at teatime.” She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “She’s fond of raw quail eggs.”

A giggle burst out of the boy, light and free. His eyes widened, and he clapped his hands over his mouth, clearly bewildered by his own merriment. The old woman’s smile turned sad.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, you will do very nicely, Mister Riddle.”

“M-Ma’am?” Mrs. Cole stammered, disbelieving. The lady turned to face her, eyes blazing.

“I believe you heard me perfectly well, madame,” she intoned. “Mister Riddle will be coming with me.” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Tom stared up at her in wonder. She’d laid her hand down slowly, so slowly he’d not had the usual urge to flinch away. This lady wanted _him_. He couldn’t remember ever being wanted before.

And so of course, one of the children his age that Tom most despised chose that moment to open his big mouth.

“Whaddya want freaky sneaky Tom for?” he asked. “Them people at church say ‘e’s got the Devil in ‘im, y’know.”

The lady turned to face Billy Stubbs, who was picking his nose and not even attempting to look appealing to the guest. Billy was a big boy for an almost-eight-year-old and had been returned twice in one year for being an argumentative child. He’d begun to be jaded and had recently been heard to proclaim that only swots and babies got chosen by visitors, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t jealous of whomever it was. Particularly when the one chosen was _Tom Riddle_. The two boys clashed fairly often, their disputes growing more vitriolic and violent by day. At this point, the entire orphanage was just waiting for Tom to grow fed up of arguments and retaliate as Mrs. Cole refused to intervene.

“That,” the lady visitor said with as much dignity as a queen, “is not a particularly nice thing to say.” Both Billy and Tom flushed, Billy out of embarrassment and Tom from pleasure. Nobody had ever stood up for him before.

Mrs. Cole finally seemed to pull herself together and asked the lady to accompany the matron to her office. The room waited until the two visitors were all the way down the hall to begin whispering up a storm. Children and nurses alike were chattering in disbelief over the entire event. The only one to keep her head was Nurse Martha, one of the few who had a soft spot for young Tom. She ushered the boy upstairs quickly to pack his things, reminding him as they went to mind his manners for the lady and to remember to write if things worked out. The children still in the Visitor’s Room continued to incredulously discuss the most unusual turn of events.

Eventually the other helpers remembered themselves and chivvied the children out of the room, leaving one of their number to guard the door until Mrs. Cole could lock it again while the others went to put the infants back in the nursery.

Martha stood by Tom at the door, waiting for the lady to return with newly signed adoption papers. While Tom had been packing his few possessions into the knapsack Martha had found him, the nurse had pressed an ear to Mrs. Cole’s office, both amused and vindicated to hear that grand old lady easily steamrollering over any objections the matron desperately tried to provide. The adoption had sounded as though it was progressing regardless of the matron’s opinions, and so Martha felt no worry or guilt over having Tom ready himself to leave despite the slim chance it might still fall through.

Just as Martha expected, the woman and her companion came down the stairs and smiled to see Tom waiting for them. The old lady was being helped back into her expensive fur-lined coat by her companion, and she smiled at Tom. “We’ve a car waiting outside, so you shouldn’t get overly chilled.”

Tom looked down, his cheeks flushing as he pulled the thin jacket—the closest thing to a coat he had—closer to his body.

“None of that now,” she said, flapping her hands. “I once didn’t even have a jacket to keep me warm. Be glad of what you have, not ashamed. It makes you more grateful when your life takes unexpected turns.”

Tom was staring at her with both awe and curiosity, and even Martha wondered in amazement how this wealthy and cultured woman could have ever been poor enough to not even own anything to keep her warm. But the woman was ushering Tom out the door and to the car waiting outside. Tom couldn’t help but glance back at the orphanage doors, where Martha was still watching and waving goodbye to him. Tom uncertainly waved back, but then he was ushered into the opulent vehicle.

It was the nicest car Tom had ever seen, and the first one he’d ever ridden in. He was nearly afraid to sit on the shiny leather seats with his shabby clothes. The chauffer was a dignified older man with receding blond hair. He gave them all a friendly smile once the two old women were in their seats on either side of Tom.

“Where to now, Princess?” he asked. Tom blinked in surprise, wondering who he was addressing. Had he been adopted by a real princess? Surely not.

It was the stately old woman who answered. “A round of the shops, Michael, if you please. Tom needs to be properly outfitted.” She then turned to Tom. “I thought we’d do some shopping today, ending with supper at Simpson’s before returning to the house. How does that sound to you?”

Tom stared, open-mouthed, for a moment before shaking himself. “I-um- I don’t…know?” He winced, but the woman’s face merely softened in sympathy.

“I know this is all overwhelming, young one, and I am sorry for that. Great change is always difficult. Let me pose it in this way: would you prefer to settle in to your new home today and do things such as receiving a new wardrobe and other such things at a later date, or would you rather get the fussing over with and settle in over the next little while?”

Tom considered this seriously. She was…she was really acting as though she had no intention of sending him back—she implied if they went shopping it would be for a _wardrobe_, not just a few respectable outfits. And other things too, she’d said. Still, if she thought about changing her mind later, perhaps having already invested money in him would give her pause.

“I’d ruther get th’ shoppin’ done, if’n you please, mum,” he said quietly. He hesitated, and then got up the courage to ask “Erm, what do I call you, mum?”

She blinked at that. “Oh, yes, I forgot to mention,” she said. “I’m not one to put importance on titles—frankly, so long as you do not call me rude names, I shan’t care what title you give me. But, were I to decide, I think I would like you to call me Auntie or Grandmama. We are to be family, after all, and I am rather old to be a mama to a boy your age.”

Tom stared at her, again at a loss for words. Having choices really _was_ overwhelming, Tom thought to himself. He regarded the strange old woman. She smiled down at him. Her lady companion sitting on Tom’s other side winked at him and gave him a commiserating sort of look, so he supposed this was just how the old lady was all the time.

“I…I suppose I could call you Grandmama,” he said hesitantly. She certainly did _look_ like a storybook grandmother.

“An’ I’m Becky,” the other woman said. “Just Becky, or Aunt Becky, if’n you please.” Unlike Grandmama, who spoke so high-brow she almost sounded royal, Becky spoke rather more like Tom and the other people he knew at the orphanage and the surrounding neighborhood. She spoke like somebody who wasn’t very educated or rich, despite her costly furs and nice clothes.

Tom just nodded at her, still a bit lost and confused. The car took off and Tom couldn’t help but press his nose against the window. They were moving so fast! And it was so smooth, too! He watched with eager interest as the streets outside shifted from the poverty-stricken blocks around the orphanage to rows of shops and fine houses, growing progressively nicer and more expensive as they went.

They came to an area filled with nothing but shops and restaurants, and that was where they made their first stop. Everything in the clothing shop was made by hand, which meant that Tom spent an awful lot of time standing on a stool while he was measured and pinned. Grandmama ordered him more clothes than Tom felt he’d ever wear in a lifetime, and all in finer fabrics than he’d ever seen or touched—underclothes in charmeuse and silk, jumpers and shirts of cashmere and muslin and poplin, tweed and velvet trousers and jackets and caps, outfits in silk and vellum, lined in ermine and other costly furs. Dozens of little boots and loafers in fine leather. The seamstresses all whispered and gossiped about the handsome old woman spending so much money on the ragged little boy with the beautiful face. They wondered if she was some foreign princess who’d discovered a grandchild living in poverty.

Well, Tom thought to himself, close enough.

As he walked out of the shop his old orphanage uniform had been discarded for one of his new outfits—the rest boxed up and due to be shipped to Tom’s new home. He couldn’t stop rubbing his fingers along the fur lining of his new overcoat, which was heavy on his shoulders over his jacket, button-down shirt, and knee-length shorts. Their second stop was at a hat-shop and their third was at a shop for all sorts of clothing accessories; handkerchiefs and ties and gloves, pins and cufflinks, suspenders and belts and cummerbunds, even an assortment of wristwatches and a nice wallet which Grandmama told him he could keep his allowance in.

(He was getting an allowance? Of real money?)

The toy shops were next: a whole street of them. They went in and out of shops with stuffed animals and shops with plastic figurines, shops selling real electric trains sets and shops with old wooden or china toys. Grandmama had a tendency to buy Tom anything he expressed a fondness for and anything that she was fond of herself, but Tom did his best to corral his new guardian, uncertain what he’d do with so many toys.

He lost the argument on the rocking horse (she insisted every child ought to have one, and that he’d have a _real live_ pony and carriage as well) but won the argument on the veritable mountain of stuffed toys she tried to buy him. Tom accepted only one stuffed python almost as big as him, a soft velveteen rabbit, and a carved posable dragon. Then she saw him gazing longingly at the electric toys store and they ended up buying two train sets—a small one that would apparently fit in his play room (he was going to have a play room?) and another large enough for Tom to ride in that Grandmama insisted would make a lovely addition to the back garden.

The tiny niche shop of old-fashioned toys—dolls with china faces, real wooden soldier sets and newer pewter soldier sets, along with an assortment of wooden carved toys in various sizes—was their last stop. Grandmama had smiled at the dolls.

“I do love dolls,” she’d said wistfully. “When we get home, I shall introduce you to Emily.”

“Emily?” Tom repeated.

Grandmama nodded. “When I was a girl, I had a very lovely game of Pretend I liked to play where I would suppose that dolls were alive.” At his bewildered look she smiled. “You never know,” she told him, “they might be. Magic is around every corner in this lovely world, and you must never decide things are impossible. Then, you might miss out on the wonder.” She waved away the weighty silence this proclamation produced with an elegant hand. “Anyhow, Emily was the last gift I received from my papa in person. He wished me to have a companion I could tell secrets to while at boarding school, since he would no longer be there to act as my confidant.”

Tom looked at the rows of dolls. He supposed he could understand that. They _did_ look like little people. Some were more sawdusty, some were more glass-eyed, but a few seemed almost as though they breathed, they looked so real. Tom wandered through the shop curiously, looking around at all the dolls and other toys. He felt a tingle as he wandered and froze. That had felt like…like when he used his powers.

As he looked about wide-eyed, Tom’s eye was caught by an unusual-looking doll off to one side. It was a foreign-looking doll, a girl in a long strange dress and a brightly coloured veil, but what caught Tom’s attention were the flute attached to one of the doll’s hands and the basket tied to the other

“What kind of doll is that?” he asked Grandmama.

Looking at her revealed both she and the shopkeeper (an old woman with dark skin and a red spot between her shining black eyes) were staring at Tom in surprise. He cringed. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

Grandmama smiled widely. “Oh, no lad.”

The old shopkeeper cut in. “You do magic, boy?”

Tom’s eyes widened. “Magic?” he asked nervously.

“Hmm, anything odd. Making things fly, changing colours, breaking glass, that sort of thing.”

Tom’s mouth opened and closed. “I can make things move wi’out touchin’ ‘em,” he said in a hushed whisper. “An’ bad things always ‘appen to the people who’re mean to me. Ms Cole wanted ta bring in a priest cause she said I was possessed by the devil, but I figured out ‘ow to make ‘er keep forgettin’ ta call ‘im in.”

The old shopkeeper looked thunderous, but Grandmama just looked sad. “Well, I can make things happen too,” she told him in a secretive whisper. “It was the done thing when I was a girl for nobles living in India to hire a native witch to teach the arts, and Papa wanted me to go to finishing school instead of magic school besides. I was tutored until I was eleven by my ayah, and then later when I was older my guardian hired me other teachers.” She smiled. “I love this shop so because Chandra—” she gestured to the shopkeeper who was watching their conversation now with a frown on her face “—well, she’s a witch as well, and she makes lovely enchanted objects she keeps here at the back of the shop where nonmagical people can’t see them.”

Tom looked about. “Oh,” he said, realising, “You realised I must be magic cause I could come back ‘ere.”

Grandmama nodded. “Exactly. Now! You were asking about this doll here, weren’t you?”

Tom nodded as she took the foreign-looking porcelain doll off the shelf. Grandmama smiled as she took it into her hands.

“It’s dressed as if it’s from India,” she said. “My ayah had an outfit much like this. And you see the flute and basket? She’s a snake charmer, this doll is.”

The shop-woman smiled sharply. “Like snakes, do you boy?” At Tom’s uncertain nod, she ran a finger over the doll’s basket, and _hissed_. It was a wordless hiss, much like the sound a snake made when it was very pleased with something. Tom stared open-mouthed as the lid of the little basket was pushed aside and a plush cobra pushed its way up into the air, a cloth snake-tongue flickering in and out of its mouth.

“_Hello_,” the little toy snake hissed. Tom looked up at the two women, startled.

“It talked!” he yelped, delighted but rather surprised.

Grandmama exchanged a speaking look with the old shopkeeper, and then both turned back to Tom with broad smiles. “Would you like to have this doll, Tom?” Grandmama asked.

“The doll’s charmed to play lullabies with her flute,” the shopkeeper said. “When she plays, the snake will dance. And if you can speak Parseltongue—snake language—you can talk to the toy snake as well. It only really says basic phrases: hello’s and goodbye’s, well-wishes, encouraging phrases. If you ask for a story, the doll will tell old folk tales in Parseltongue and in English.”

Tom stared at it, wide-eyed. “Wow,” he breathed. He looked up at the shopkeeper with shining eyes. “It’s a swell doll, mum,” he said earnestly. She gave him a smile that wrinkled her whole face and patted Tom on the head.

“Well then, y’take good care of her now, y’hear.”

Tom nodded earnestly, and Grandmama handed him the doll as she went to the counter to pay. Tom looked down at the doll. When it was Christmas at the orphanage it was usually girls that received any donated dolls, but Tom had gotten a nutcracker the previous year—to a seven-year-old there wasn’t much difference in type of doll. The nutcracker had been stolen and broken by older boys and then claimed by a group of girls, but this toy was all his. Tom smiled.

Up at the counter Grandmama added a pewter toy soldier set to their collection of purchases, handing the money off to Becky to pay. They left the shop with the purchases boxed up and due to be shipped to Tom’s new home (as had been done with all their previous purchases).

Tom looked up at Grandmama, still clutching the snake charmer doll. “What now?” he asked, rather overwhelmed. His stomach took that moment to growl loudly, and Grandmama laughed.

“How about supper?” she replied, and Tom nodded vigorously. She smiled at him as they got back into the automobile before turning her attention to the chauffer. “To Simpson’s In the Strand, if you please, Michael.”

Michael tipped his hat with a “Right away, ma’am” and the car began its rumbling journey to supper. Grandmama smiled down at Tom again.

“What shall you name your doll?” she asked.

Tom looked down at it and shrugged. “I dunno.” He thought for a minute, and then smiled shyly up at Grandmama. “Alice?” he suggested. The stately woman nodded. “A lovely name, from a lovely book,” she said authoritatively. Tom poked the cobra sticking its head out of the snake charmer basket. “Think I’ll call th’ snake Jabberwocky,” he decided, a grin tugging at his lips.

That made the old woman laugh aloud. “You do have a knack for names, my lad.” She stroked a hand over his hair and he blinked at her uncertainly.

“I think you, Alice, and Jabberwocky will be very happy here with me. I myself feel happier already.”

Tom flushed and ducked his head, pleased and embarrassed. Nobody had ever been happy to spend time with him before. He rather liked the idea of it.

**Author's Note:**

> This actually started out as an experiment in writing in the style of Frances Hodges Burnett, but now I have IDEAS. Since I've got two ongoing stories I'm already posting, and only a little bit more written on this one, I'll likely wait to start posting on this until I've got at least a half-dozen more chapters. I am going to be working on it in the background, though, so if you're really invested just hang around. Your patience will surely be rewarded.


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